


Home

by Ladycat



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, F/M, Light BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-16
Packaged: 2017-11-25 18:18:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Well?" Phil prompts.  His voice does not waver despite the way he rises to meet all that wet, sweet heat he knows is his to be taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [margarks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/margarks/gifts).



Phil doesn't have to say anything.

That would be crass, really. He tries to avoid that. The image he's worked hard to maintain is one that will never allow him to cross certain lines and in public, or even in the gatherings that become more and more common as the Avengers bond and form a real team, a working outfit that can stand up to the horror that grows just as increasingly powerful. It's been cultivated for a specific purpose and Phil has always been goal oriented.

And very, very successful.

There are times, though, when all he does is look. No words are spoken, no specific facial expressions that would convey meaning to anyone else. This, too, is something Phil has so careful cultivated, bonsai trees meticulously pruned until they are works of perfection. 

No one knows. Not even the occasional X-Man who drops by and their penchant for telepathy has any clue what happens when Phil lets his glance linger half a second longer on the woman who has long ago bypass secretary to become more like his second in command. The same for the archer who he has molded past the rebellious wise-assery that made him so dangerous- so good- on missions, destroying and abusing handlers who did not understand what he needed.

What both of them need.

And what Phil needs, too. Oh, how he needs it.

The apartment is spacious and airy, a two story brownstone that a few know about. Brooklyn is far enough away from the epicenter of terror that has become living in New York City that Phil allows his home to be nothing but huge windows and the serene landscapes he adores. Hues of blue and pale grey, the occasional splash of red and pinks dotted to make it feel like dawn breaking, like the world is taking a breath of fresh air once again, re-finding the verve and desire to go on.

Phil adores his apartment. He rarely gets a chance to be here, but still, he adores it.

It's already occupied when he comes home.

Clint is in the kitchen. He hums as he deftly slices at something that has no blood to slide thick and red and distracting. Clint is a hardy eater, he has to be, and stocks up on the protein required to keep up with the magically and scientifically altered beings he stands beside. Here, though, meals tend to be lighter fare. Vegetarian more often than not.

If he ever told someone that Clint had a penchant for quinoa, lemon, basil, and nothing else, he'd be scoffed at.

Clint would also be devastated, but that isn't why Phil refrains. It's his. A piece of Clint that belongs solely to him.

Leaning against the counter top, Phil drapes his jacket over a clean section and watches the knife flash in controlled movements. Clint is a vicious, dirty fighter. He could also rival any chef for the precision of his chopped vegetables. "How long before dinner?"

"Just need to get this into the pot. I thought maybe a stew tonight, but it'll take at least an hour to cook."

"Good," Phil approves, and doesn't react when Clint's shoulders loosen just a fraction, the lines around his eyes easing. "I'm not hungry yet."

Or, well. He is. He always is, hungry and wanting and clinging desperately with fingers stronger than Iron Man's enhanced grip.

Everyone else just thinks it's to his career. The mission, perhaps, to those who know the deeper secrets of S.H.I.E.L.D. The cause, defense of humanity and righteousness that Phil does, honestly, believe in. Is something he does strive for.

But it isn't the hunger that stirs his belly as he watches Clint's muscles flex beneath the thin tank-top he wears, his bared arms a work of art as he fixes this and that.

"Good boy," he says, and never lets his smirk free as Clint's eyes flutter.

Upstairs he finds Darcy waiting. She's quiet, which is unusual. It was her he looked to first in the early afternoon, a brush of eyes that had made her retreat to the cubicle they really ought to exchange for an actual office one day, her lush, red lips pressed together as she went. Phil watches without interfering as Darcy putters around the bedroom, cleaning this and straightening that.

Her own apartment is a chaotic echo of the disaster that is her cubicle. Darcy thrives on it, always knowing within the whirlwind just where everything is. She is the opposite of Phil in every way and this neatness, this desire to restore order to a world where she craves none at all, is far more nerve wracking than the way Clint had gone zen-calm when praised.

When she attempts to straighten the bed already neatly made, hospital corners crisp enough for any English governess, Phil has had enough. "Come here."

The words are quiet, strong. They make Darcy shudder, which is always a lovely thing to watch. Her build is one men cannot help but be drawn to, a modern day Venus of Willendorf. He reaches a hand out to her when she approaches, eyes huge and nervous, uncertain in a way that is beyond bizarre for a girl who is never uncomfortable, not even when half the floor has collapsed and she's hanging on to a jutting piece of metal like an acrobat.

Phil caresses her cheek and hair. "Go take off your make up," he tells her, gently, while she bites a lip already cherry red. "All of it. When you're done, come back here."

While the water runs, Phil undresses as precisely as he always does. His suits are just as important as the ones they spend fortunes customizing for their team, full of the latest advancements and gadgets that will protect them in the battles they face. Phil has found Hugo Boss to be even more effective than Kevlar in certain situations and he treats the garments with care.

Then he dresses in sweats that barely go past his knee and a t-shirt with holes in it.

The world would boggle were they to see him this way. It's an irony Phil can't help but deeply appreciate.

When Darcy comes back she is pale and still red-lipped, her face puffy from scrubbing. Phil cups it delicately, running his thumbs over cheeks that will take hours to fade back to their normal hue, the skin abraded past its usual softness. "I didn't mean that," he tells her, and kisses first her cheeks and then her forehead, between eyes that blink hugely but do not ever fully close. "Kneel, little one."

Darcy has no grace. She is still gawky, still awkward in her body no matter how tempting it may look. Phil appreciates that and rewards her with a smile and a pat on the head. Then he uses it to press her against his knee, his thighs, in between where he waits for the heated gush of her breath.

"I won't make you tell me what's wrong," he assures her, watching as Darcy nuzzles gratefully against a cock already half-hard. Her silence has gone from unusual to downright disturbing, but Phil doesn't let it bother him too much. He knows how to discover the issues.

As she buries herself where Phil is always warmest, Clint climbs up the stairs nearly silently. He stands in the doorway, watching. Phil knows that Clint loves this girl who shudders and mouths at another man's cock. Adores her in a way that is likely unhealthy, but also just as likely the only way Clint Barton can ever love anyone. He has had the cold, hard truth before, has slept beside it and woke every morning surprised that his throat had not been cut, that the body beside him still breathed warm and relaxed.

Mostly relaxed.

But Darcy is different. She is an ideal to Clint, something to wrestle with for the sheer joy of physical touch, a talisman that if this girl who is spark and flame and _trusting_ , so trusting that Clint who could break her without thought, who struggles not to let his nightmares intrude upon hers, believes that he will never hurt her. Never- then maybe it really is true.

It's same trust that Clint has with Phil, the unflappable handler who negotiated him through a bad mission and brought him home, brought him to bed, chained with bonds he could break and ordered him around like the grunt he'd never actually been.

That night is still one of Phil's favorites.

Now, though, Darcy is sucking wet patches along his shorts and Clint is watching her like a Christmas gift he cannot wait to open.

"Well?" Phil prompts. His voice does not waver despite the way he rises to meet all that wet, sweet heat he knows is his to be taken.

"Please, Daddy," Darcy says, and oh, that's a surprise. Even Clint blinks, his mouth half open to ask permission he knows may not be granted. That's the trick of it, of course. Never let either of these two get complacent and they will eat out of your hand for all time, desperate to taste each change. "Please, can you fuck me?"

Clint makes a thin noise through his teeth. He's been quieter when struck with one of his own arrows.

Phil strokes her hair back to expose her face, tipped up and yearning with all the need of a Disney princess. There's no hint of the filth that usually spills freely from her, encouraged by the men who drive her. Love her.

"No."

Darcy _whines_ and goes back to sucking his cock through his shorts, her hands lightly circling his ankles. Balance, not request, Phil reads, and looks over at Clint. "Are you hard, boy?"

Another noise from Clint and this one Phil has never been able to translate. He likes the sound of it, though. Always has. "Yessir."

Phil raises an eyebrow.

"Daddy," he amends, quickly, wincing as he allows his old training to interfere with the new. "I'm already hard, Daddy. Have been since- since we got home."

Together, no doubt, and Clint is always solicitous when Darcy is in these moods. They happen so rarely that Phil has never been able to determine the cause. He'll find it, though. Eventually.

"Undress her," Phil commands, and watches as Clint slides the black yoga pants Darcy wears down to her knees. He lifts her legs, one by one, but she otherwise remains where she is, noisily sucking at something that will never fill her throat. Not yet, anyway.

Phil likes to hear her choke. She'll cry, sometimes, big, messy tears. Smiling around a cock is difficult but Phil likes to think he sees that crinkling in the corner of those wet, leaking eyes.

"Her panties."

"Yes, Daddy," Clint says, sounding breathless as the slick material, satin maybe, and the palest shade of rose, is given the same treatment as her pants.

"You're beautiful like this, you know. A good girl on her knees, mouth full and cunt open. She's already leaking, I presume?" Phil waits for Clint's nod before he pets her head again, enjoying the rumble of relief she makes. "If I could, my dear, I had have you this way always. Stuffed and hung upon the wall where we could always touch you. Kneel down," he says, glancing up at Clint, "after you take off your own pants."

Those are folded as carefully as any other piece of clothing in Phil's house, and Clint rolls on a condom without request. That is an ironclad rule Phil has had to beat into them, occasionally literally. That they are regularly tested and Darcy faithfully takes the pill does not preclude accidents and Phil does not _like_ accidents. Ever. He has so many of them at work. Here, in this place that is his sanctuary, with a girl on her knees and a boy with the face and body of a man crawling between her wide-spread legs, running his cock against her pussy just to make her whine with pleasure, there will be no accidents.

Ever.

A quiet request for Darcy to lean back is met with pouting that Phil lightly smacks. "Behave," he chides, and slips off shorts that are soaked and clinging to his thighs. His cock springs free and Darcy licks her lips, eyes lighting up with something more like her normal level of attention and sass.

"Daddy," she says, and there's no little girl lilt to her voice, oh no. Just breathiness and want, a woman who is where she chooses to be. "Daddy, may I have your cock?"

Phil glances down at Clint, just a slide of eyes across taut features. "Yes. I think I'd like to fuck your face, make you sob and cry a little. After all," he leads.

"You're Daddy." It comes out like a sigh, as gentle as spring winds greeting the dawn. "Whatever you want, Daddy."

"Good girl," he praises, and slams her head down onto hips he's already shifted up, Clint's timing utterly superb as his cock pushes inside of Darcy just as roughly, just a deep, splitting and spitting her until she screams.

She has the most lovely screams. Phil has listened to those for hours.

They fuck her brutally, hands leaving marks on her shoulders, her hips, dark roses that will bloom come morning for them to kiss. Darcy is crying, sobbing around her need to suck, tongue flicking the way Phil likes it whenever he draws back far enough. He doesn't, not often. He pushes into her throat mercilessly, watching her body judder and shake as Clint balances only on his knees, fucking her with short, powerful strokes that leave her flailing, helpless.

Phil doesn't know how many times she comes. Tonight isn't a game of denial- not for her, at least. He can feel most of them, watch her hips grind down extra hard, her body going liquid and malleable beneath their touch.

By the time Phil sighs and empties himself into her mouth- never throat, he likes to watch her swallow, to stroke her neck and call her a good girl for not making a mess- Clint is a sweating, heaving mess of want, looking up at Phil like he is all that matters, a pup desperate for that final command.

That he has both arms wrapped around Darcy's middle, holding her almost tenderly as she shakes and swallows, her little cries hoarse as she leans back into him is not out of place at all. There is always tenderness in brutality.

For them, at least.

"Darcy, dear, hold onto the bed and rock on his cock until he comes," Phil decides after a moment. It's a gorgeous sight, Darcy's breasts flying as she slams her palms against the bed, desperate for leverage as she works the delectable curve of her ass back in a fierce, desperate motion. She'll be flutteringly hot and tight, squeezing with all the focused intent she displays during working hours. "Make him come, please. Now."

It isn't an order for Clint. His quickfire glare gives away his dislike, but then Darcy is _slamming_ back on him, grunting until he matches the sound, soft cries that are oddly falsetto and endearing rather than the guttural sounds that one would expect. Clint is always softest when he's being tended to, when his cock is milked and his body held perfectly still with Phil's hand stroking his hair, again and again.

"Such good children," he murmurs. "I'm a lucky man."

Clint's cry, when it comes, is a long, breathy moan, Darcy's a sharper harmony. It goes on for a pleasantly long time.

When their bodies finish jerking, when they calm and slump against the side of the mattress, Darcy has a pleased, languid expression and Clint is nuzzling into her hair like he wants to be no where else.

Phil watches with a smile, palming a cock that is not quite ready for round two, but getting there. He has every intention of fucking Clint into those whispery screams he makes. Darcy, he decides, can watch.

She never can resist commentary.

"Let's eat," he tells the sex-sodden couple, who blearily climb to their feet and travel downstairs naked but for their shirts, leaning on each other. Phil follows behind, smiling whenever one of them glances back, an anxious little, "Daddy?" tugging him along.

It's good to be home, he thinks, and serenely pinches two bottoms. Very good.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Margie, because really, Phil Coulson is the best Daddy ever. He is.


End file.
